


The Glaciers Have All Melted

by Khal



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Life Debt, M/M, Nurse Zayn, RMS Titanic, Sexual Confusion, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:41:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4936327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khal/pseuds/Khal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's been falling for Zayn ever since the moment he'd first laid eyes on him.</p><p>In which, Harry tries to save Zayn, only to be one that needs saving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Glaciers Have All Melted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iammisscullen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammisscullen/gifts).



> Have to thank my betas first of all. I had a colony of them and they were all super helpful. However, I did make a lot of last minute changes and any mistakes are entirely my own. Miss Cullen, I hope this fic at least scratched the surface as to what you wanted.

 

Zayn’s needed this for a while. A decent vacation; some time away from his friends and family and his mum’s insistent prying, to say the least. Her heart’s in the right place, but Zayn doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to endure her endless questions about his and Eleanor’s relationship and where they stand. It was starting to become unbearable. _Had the arguing stopped? If they were doing better?_ Her questions about Eleanor became a routine and the way she fired them off, with no filtration or hesitation, made it sound like she was running down a checklist.

A cruise around the Atlantic wasn't the plan originally. He’d been hoping for somewhere he had never been before. The white sandy beaches of Hawaii. The Mayan ruins in Central America. But he has a fear of heights and can't bare to even look at an airplane.

The cruise was just something he had in his back pocket. A trip he’d won during his first year at University when he couldn't help but sign up for all the activities that were offered. The hype was over within a week and he never showed up to a single event. He had initially given the tickets to his parents, but they opted to give them back since they had been collecting dust over the past few years anyway. The boat was massive: a pool, a bar, dining area, gift shop. He wouldn’t be surprised if people lived like this, on cruise ships, completely cut off from humanity. His parents would’ve definitely appreciated it.

It was unseasonably warm for September, the sun out and beating down on his back; a line of sweat running down the length of his neck. He's alone on the deck, though he's surrounded by people. The majority of them waving to their loved ones on the dock below and crying like they'll never see each other again. The dramatics of it make Zayn laugh at first, until he remembers that the Titanic happened and his swimming abilities are still pretty much nonexistent. It’s only then that he wishes he had someone to wave him off too.

Eleanor’s late and Zayn wonders if she'll even show. He’d talked to her about this, mentioning it nearly every day for the past week. _The last port in Southampton. The boat leaves at ten. We have to board an hour early. Please be on time._ He couldn’t have made himself more clear.

Zayn scans the sea of people flailing their arms around him, in search of a familiar face. He looks for long dark hair weaving through the crowds; listens for a shriek of his name. Nothing. He knew he should've brought his sister. She would've enjoyed it. Would've made the five days more comfortable.

He stares at the unanswered texts he made hours prior and can't shake the feeling of being stood up. Eleanor could have at least called and told him. She could have at least given him that. She should've called.

He’s not going to be bitter about it though. Can’t spend the entire time on what’s supposed to be a relaxing trip, moping about a girl he thought he knew better. They’ve been having their differences lately, and he honestly should’ve seen this coming.

The clash and clinking of expensive wine glasses hitting wood is enough to make his head turn, pulling him out of his ruminations, along with everyone else in the perimeter of the ship.

In the middle of the crowd lands a waiter and a tall, lean figure on top of him. The guy, who's probably the most awkward thing standing on two legs, immediately stands out. He’s got 70’s Woodstock hair and boots that shine like stars on a clear night. They’re surrounded by broken glass and spilled champagne. He tries to help the waiter get up when he himself can’t even stand. The guy could pass as a young Mick Jagger, or even a Janis Joplin, from what Zayn can see, with his long hair and even longer limbs. It wasn’t his go-to music, but his mum loved the Rolling Stones when she was younger so he knows enough.

No one looks angry or thrown at all; not the cruise employees rushing over to lend a hand, not the other passengers, not even the waiter who took the brunt of the fall.

The bystanders get involved then and he can’t bother to stick around when he sees things start getting worse. Someone slips on a wet spot on the floor and the lady carrying a handful of leis goes with them. It gets weirder when she starts to laugh, followed by a few other employees, then some of the other travelers are in on it as well. Zayn thinks he’s made a mistake; everyone here is a little too damn happy for him. He can’t spot a cold face anywhere.

He makes to get off, change his mind and just stay home. But then the horn on the boat sounds and Zayn knows it’s too late. He turns off his work phone, the one he uses solely for when he’s on call at the hospital. A lot of responsibility comes with being head nurse at one of London’s biggest and oldest clinics. He made sure to clear his schedule and handle all his business beforehand so he could actually enjoy himself because he hasn’t taken time off in so long.

He gives up on the prospect that Eleanor might come. That’s one thing he’s always had a dislike for: false hope.

 

 

When the sun is dipped low beyond the horizon and he’s done eating in the dining hall, Zayn wanders around the deck. The open water and the clear sky makes it all look endless. Makes everything look bigger than it is. The stars are out and it makes the strings on his heart tug a little. You can’t really see them from the city with all the bright lights and cloud of smog, but when there are rolling blackouts, you’re lucky enough to catch them like this. Someone should have been here to experience it with him; if not his girlfriend, his sister or his mom even.

He stops just along the railing to light a cigarette. He’s read the brochure and knows the rules. There’s a no smoking policy but no one’s around. Nobody can tell him no if they can’t see him. It’s nice out. Why not pollute the air a bit?

When he hears a dull bang and thump just around the bend, he snaps his neck so fast it almost gives him whiplash. He doesn’t know if he should go, skeptical of what he might find on the other side.

He sucks it up and rounds the corner before he can think twice about it, only to find a spindly figure sprawled out on the wooden flooring.

Zayn gets a good look at the scene: a few rough looking steps and an empty wine flute lying not too far away.

Zayn curses silently to himself, momentarily thinking about the possibility of a dead body on his hands. That’s how it always is at first, his initial reaction to anything that looks lifeless. He should know better by now, but it only takes a few seconds before common sense kicks in. He puts his cigarette out and shuffles towards the gangly heap that eventually lets out a quiet groan and he can feel himself physically loosen.

He gets closer and it’s the same kid from earlier; the one with the wild hair. He probably should’ve guessed that from the familiarity of it all. He’s probably not much younger than him, but the five blonde hairs on his upper lip almost makes him look pubescent. Zayn would probably place him at about seventeen if it wasn’t for his giant frame and the surprising bit of muscle on his arms.

“Alright, mate?” Zayn asks warily, keeping his distance. He motions to the slight cut and already swollen lump on the boy’s head, and can’t stop himself from placing a comforting hand on Jagger’s shoulder, his other hand patting himself down for anything he might have on him that could help with the bleeding.

“M’ Harry.”

 _That’s a good sign. He knows his name._ “Zayn.” He answers curtly, pulling his hands away for a moment to play awkwardly with the collar of his shirt and dust himself free of dirt that isn’t there. “Look at your head.” Zayn continues, referring to the red blotch near his hairline, a glaring stain against his moonlit skin. He watches as Harry brings his hands up to feel, and then winces at the pain. “That sounded like it really hurt. What were you doing?”

Harry smiles smugly, like a child with a secret he can’t hold in. “Prancing.”

“Prancing?” Zayn asks, as if he’s tasting the word.

Harry nods and proceeds to explain what the word means. “It’s like skipping, but with flare.” He goes on about it and Zayn begins to wonder if helping him is even worth it; having never heard someone talk so much after being passed out on the floor.

However, Zayn listens to him. Talking is a good thing, so he lets him. He pulls out his phone and turns on the flashlight that comes with it, examining Harry’s eyes. They follow the light. Everything looks fine, besides the blown back pupils from the drinks Zayn knows he’s had. No signs of a concussion. He's immediately taken to Harry's eyes; the nicest pair of pale green eyes he's had the pleasure of checking. It always makes him think about the tiny percentage of the world's population that has green eyes.

Then the double doors to the banquet hall open and people begin to file out.

“Maybe we should get you up.” Zayn tucks himself under Harry’s arm. It isn’t hard considering he’s about half a head taller. Harry can barely walk and Zayn speculates that’s just how he is all the time. Naturally clumsy and cursed with two left feet.

“Do you need me to show you to your room?” Zayn suggests and he knows he’s pushing it. Not quite sure why he’s offering something he doesn’t really want to do. The fact that he’s a nurse makes him feel obligated. It’s in his nature to be helpful.

Harry nods and slurs out his room number.

It takes them a while to get there, mostly because Harry is so heavy and it’s like Zayn is carrying dead weight with how little effort Harry is putting into holding himself up. No one really pays them any mind, just pass them by like it’s a normal thing. It makes sense considering half the crowd looks drunk as well.

Harry’s room isn’t much further than his. Zayn makes a point of telling him, though Harry just continues to chat about how the drink he had, only had forty percent alcohol in it and how it was a waste of time because he doesn’t even feel it.

By the time Zayn gets Harry’s door open and helps him inside, he’s sweating. He tries to get Harry onto the bed and inevitably ends up falling with him. Harry laughs into Zayn’s hair, hot breath fanning over his neck. "You have Whiskey colored eyes. D'you know that?" That was a new one. His eyes have been compared to everything from chocolate cake to seducing horse.

Harry's lips graze against his jugular and the feeling makes Zayn blush a bit, a slight fizzing sensation flitting up his spine. It confuses him and he scrambles back onto his feet, smoothing down his shirt.

He shuffles out as soft snores cloud the small confines of the room. A couple, probably not much older than him, give him knowing smiles as they pass. It makes him uncomfortable because he obviously knows what they’re thinking. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding in when they pass by, padding down the hall towards his own room.

 

**:::**

 

Zayn likes to sleep. It’s one of those things he can’t live without and if he can get a full ten hours of it, he’s set for the day. It's nice to have no obligations for a change and no annoying factory set ringtone waking him up at an ungodly hour. It wasn't the best bed, but the atmosphere almost made up for it. With the lull of the ship swaying him and the foreign smell of sea salt in the air, he’s not due to wake for awhile.

He was sleeping soundly when he heard the first wave of incessant banging on his cabin door. Initially, he thought he was dreaming; about fireworks or Call of Duty. But then he hears what he thinks is a light mewl of his name being called and it makes his eyes flutter open. It’s not enough to make him get out of bed at first. There's probably someone else on this floor with the same name as him. But when the banging goes away for a few minutes and then returns, he wants to rip his hair out.

He stomps off to open it, only to find Harry on the other side. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” The way he says it is accusatory, but Zayn looks at him like he looks at most things that greet him with a rude awakening. His hair is everywhere and his eyes, like the rest of his face, are red and puffy.

He wants to ask Harry how he knew which room he was staying in, let alone how he still remembers his name. The way he was acting the night before, Zayn didn’t think he had listened to a word he said.

“Are you just waking up? It’s almost one,” Harry continues, his voice going up an octave after each word. “Can I come in?”

Harry doesn’t even wait for a response, and slithers his way inside. Zayn can’t get a word in with how much Harry has to say, which would be funny considering how slowly he speaks, if it wasn’t also so annoying.

He babbles on and on about how Zayn’s room is different than his. Somehow, the conversation goes from the construction of the boat to the _Titanic_ , the movie and the ship, before segueing into the climate change crisis the world is facing. Harry turns it into a lesson; asking Zayn if he knows what will happen if the world’s surface temperature increases to three degrees Celsius. He doesn’t give Zayn a chance to answer and explains it himself. ' _The sea levels will rise and Bangladesh will be the first to go. The Amazon will dry up and be uninhabitable. More and more animals will be wiped out. Isn’t that sad, Zayn?'_  

Zayn contemplates whether Harry is even sober and wonders which version of him he likes better. When he sees a window between Harry taking a breath and starting another rant, he takes the opportunity to talk. “What are you doing here, Harry?” His accent still thick and scratchy with sleep.

“Oh, sorry.” Harry bites his lip and stands, crossing the room again to stand in front of Zayn. He’s very tall now that he's standing up straight; broad shoulders and strong facial features, hair long enough to apparently fit in a bun. His voice is clear and friendly, nothing like the slightly slurred speech of the previous night. “Zayn. I owe you my life.”

Zayn's ears have closed, like the time when he was twelve and his family went on that long car trip with the windows up and the heat on because it was freezing cold out. Zayn wonders if he heard him right. He furrows his eyebrows and the side of his mouth curls into a wry smirk. “What?”

Harry clears his throat and begins again. “You saved my life. I want to repay the favor.”

Zayn narrows his eyes suspiciously at his words. He was lost until he remembered what Harry was referring to. He’s been to medical school. He knows the ins and outs of the human body. He’s been there for births and for untimely demises. He doesn’t feel bad a bit when he momentarily thinks of the most efficient way to kill a person in a way that will look like an accident. He didn't need to be woken up for this. “You don’t have to do that.”

“You saved me from falling to my death.”

Zayn snorts and scrubs a hand over his face. “It was five stairs. You would have lived. And I didn’t save you, you were already on the floor.”

“Please, Zayn. Let me at least try to make it up to you."

“Alright. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Zayn opts to pull him towards the door, but Harry is surprisingly sturdy for once. Zayn can’t move him an inch.

“Please? My conscious would feel a lot better if I at least attempted,” Harry tells him with a hand over his chest and the other out with his palm towards him.

There’s something about the way he says it. The sincere flicker in his pleading eyes, the conviction in his voice. Zayn doesn’t argue with him, mostly because he doesn’t have the strength to. He gives in and nods profusely and cracks a smile when Harry moves his feet. He leads him by the shoulder and out of the room.

“I promise to do whatever I can by the end of the trip,” Harry assures him brightly.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Zayn mumbles, before shutting the door in Harry’s giddy face.

When his body falls against the bed again, he’s angry. He can’t go to sleep right away, mainly due to the shuffling of feet from people outside and the sunlight beaming through the porthole. He also can’t sleep because of the ammunition he’s been given. Harry wants to make it up to him. Make up for something he didn’t really do.

Zayn doesn’t feed into it. He’s known Harry for twelve hours and already has him figured out. Loud and energetic, like a puppy off his leash. Harry will probably forget about it and so will he. He’s a nurse, just a few years off from a degree that will claim his as being a doctor. Nothing life-threatening is going to happen to him in the span of five days with one day already down. This trip is so he can enjoy himself, relax. And that’s what he’s going to do.

 

 

But Harry doesn’t go easily.

When Zayn steps out thirty minutes later to use the loo, Harry is right there waiting for him, scribbling something on his arm with a sharpie. He perks up with a smile when his eyes meet Zayn’s.

Zayn’s eyes slowly close and open again, his mouth set in a hard line. He sighs, locking the door and starting down the corridor to the joint bathrooms. “You’re not serious about this are you?”

Harry shrugs, keeping up with him, shoulder to shoulder in the narrow halls.

Zayn has his answer when Harry follows him into the bathroom and waits outside the stall, as if he’ll fall into the toilet or something. It's uncomfortable. He never did like using public restrooms, didn't like when people could hear him.

But Harry starts to chat about something Zayn doesn't really care about and he uses it to his advantage. Harry’s waiting with a towel when he steps out. A too big smile on his face.

He’s not sure how long he’ll last with a complete stranger following him around.

 

Harry makes it his life’s mission to watch over Zayn like a hawk. He can’t go into a pool without Harry throwing a floatie in after him. If it were any other pool and if they weren’t surrounded by a bunch of people, he’d be grateful. But the water barely comes up to his knees and the kids don’t even bother to use any precaution. Zayn turns only to see Harry standing at the edge with his hands on his hips and an disapproving look that comes off as imperious.

Harry joins him when Zayn refuses to put the bubble donut around him. Claiming that he’ll get in so if something goes wrong, he’ll be ready. Zayn rolls his eyes and doesn’t object, stirring his drink from the bar. He gets a look at Harry’s tattoos and begins to question just how old he is again. He wonders for two different reasons. Harry looks way too young to have even one tattoo, let alone a full arm of them, and the tattoos he has are a little immature. A star, an iced gem under it. A random letter ‘G.’ It reminds him of those poorly manufactured coloring books that are sold in corner stores between the cheap toys and birthday cards. But then he remembers his own cluster fuck of tattoos and doesn’t judge Harry any further.

Somehow, despite doing no excessive movement, Harry catches a cramp and makes a fit about not being able to swim back to the edge. “What if I drown? Help me!” He’s so dramatic about it and draws the attention of the people around them, including the lifeguards. To not make a bigger scene, Zayn plays it off as an inside joke and drags him out of the pool that’s no deeper than three feet.

Harry thanks him, asking what he thinks the best massage technique is for a leg cramp and demands that Zayn demonstrates. He shakes his head, not believing that he’s actually fixing to do this and obliges. He never paid attention in the massage therapy class that was a last minute sign-up for his credits, but he knows what a massage is. He starts off by roughly rubbing at Harry’s calf in a way that he’ll know he’s not one to be messed with. He watches him wince and it takes all his power not to let the corners of his mouth curl up. After two minutes, Harry’s had enough and takes over, smoothing his skin from what Zayn knows is his doing.

He uses Harry’s injured state to make a break for it and hides out in his room and reads for the rest of the evening. There’s a knock every now and then, a call of his name. He holds his breath and waits, forcing himself to not make a sound. He doesn’t play music without his earphones for fear that Harry might hear and will know he’s inside.

 

**:::**

 

Zayn ambles around the deck looking for an employee on the third day. He brought a long sleeve shirt by accident and the weather didn’t call for it. After much convincing, Zayn got them to give him a pair of scissors that weren’t knicked from the children’s craft center.

On his way back to the room, Harry jumps out like a bat out of hell and rips the scissors out of his hand. After realizing that this wasn’t an attack, it takes Zayn everything in his power not to punch him because he knows the consequences; they’d be spending the rest of their trip in the boat jail quarters, which he wasn’t going to risk for some bloke he barely knows. Harry is a nice kid, but he was pushing it. He's overstepping his boundaries and Zayn doesn’t complain often, but he found himself doing it more and more every time Harry was around.

He’s just about ready to tell him off, but then Harry winces and lets go of the scissors. He’s got a decent cut along his palm. Zayn squints because he doesn’t think he’s met anyone who is so prone to injury. He doesn’t want to help, not this time and tells Harry to suck it up because it’s a small thing, but then Harry makes him feel bad about it.

“You helped me before. What makes this time so different?”

“Because you deserved it.”

“But you have to. Please? What if it’s serious?”

Zayn doesn’t humor him with an answer, his face stuck in what his younger sister says is called ‘bitchface.’ He doesn’t have to do shit. He’s had to put up with Harry ever since they got here and it’s becoming a nuisance.

Harry pouts and asks Zayn about the likelihood of an open wound getting infected on a public ship where three hundred plus individuals roam about. Zayn closes his eyes for a really long time and wonders what life was like before he met Harry, back when he was happy and at peace with the world.

He lugs Harry down the hall and into his room where he has antiseptic wipes that he can’t go anywhere without and cleans the wound.

“It burns.”

“It’s rubbing alcohol, it’s supposed to burn.”

Harry puts up a fight when Zayn tries to make him leave the room; claiming that he still hasn’t repaid Zayn and his opportunity may come at any moment. Harry stays with him and sits on the floor while Zayn watches movies he downloaded onto his iPad. He gets the gist of what Harry is saying; talking aimlessly about whatever strays inside his mind and telling god awful jokes that even a child wouldn’t laugh at.

"Is this you at Uni?" Harry asks out of nowhere and Zayn sees what he's got; his personal journal that absolutely no one is allowed to touch.

He's quick about it. Stalking over and snatching the book out of Harry's hands before he can read another word. "How old were you? Are those your sisters? What did you study?"

Zayn ignores him and his many questions, shoving the journal back into his suitcase along with his iPad.

"Is your hair highlightened in that picture?"

Zayn bites his tongue. _A nuiscance? A pain in the neck? A pest?_ None of them fit, because Harry was on a whole other level of what it means to be annoying. Though his loquacity was a big part of it, Harry's boisterousness and 'larger than life' self-imposition was just one he wasn't used to. _'It's because he's still young,'_ he tells himself when Harry rambles about his studies and he's looking for justification. _'Maybe he's a loner. You remember how hard it was to make decent friends.'_

"Why did you highlight your hair back then, Zayn?"

"Because I felt some strands were more important than others." Zayn answers flatly, sinking his teeth into his lower lip.

If Harry asks any more questions afterwards, he doesn't hear it. He needs space. Just a few minutes to himself. His brain is running laps and his ears are trying to distance themselves from the rest of his body.

“I’m going to go shower.” Zayn tells him when he grabs a fresh shirt from his bag and opens the door. “Don’t touch my stuff.” He warns, leaving Harry behind and setting down the hall. It was probably a mistake, but he doesn't think twice about it. He's itching to get away.

“I’ll do you one better!” He doesn’t need to turn to know that it’s Harry. “I’ll come with you!”

Zayn shakes his head as he hears the door close again and makes out the heavy stomping of feet, mentally counting the steps it took Harry to catch up to him.

 

“You’re just going to sit there and wait? I take long showers, mate.” Zayn says through the thin curtain, turning on the water. Harry sitting on the bench just five feet away. There are two other men with them and Zayn can tell they’re listening in on their conversation, not like they have a choice with how commanding Harry’s voice is.

“I’m just here to supervise.”

“Supervise what? I’m not going to fall into the drain.”

He hears Harry mumble something, but he doesn’t make it out. He figured it was probably something witty and annoying and answers back anyway. “No one's going to come and kill me. No one is going to pop out and stab me while slasher music plays in the background.”

He’s sure someone in the next stall over is laughing, but he puts it off.

He doesn’t hear what Harry has to say after that, but he knows he hasn’t left.

 

 

A few times, Zayn tries to make a run for it--whether it be to the bathroom or just hiding out near the deck, Harry finds his way right there next to him five minutes later, scolding Zayn about the possibility of falling overboard.

Harry will probably save him and he won’t have to bother anymore. He considers it, but he can’t risk it. He can’t swim. He tried to stay in his cabin at one point, but it was proving to be too much. He couldn’t take the minute space, it was a prison by itself. Over three hundred people on the boat and Zayn was stuck with him.

 

“Didn’t you come here with friends? Or family? Where are your parents?” Zayn asks when he’s washing his hands, Harry leaning against the sink next to the one he’s using. They were alone in the bathroom. The rest of the crowd in their group, upstairs in the entertainment area for another organized activity, dancing up a storm from what Zayn can tell, the walls vibrating around them and the acoustics of what sounds like a live band.

Harry frowns. “I’m twenty. Don’t need mummy and daddy to look after me any more,” he tells him with a raise of his eyebrow. “The friend who invited me works for the cruise line so she’s off doing stuff. Haven’t had a proper chat with her since we boarded.”

 _‘Or she could just be avoiding you.’_ Zayn bites his tongue because that sounds like a reasonable explanation.

“So you’re like a doctor, right?”

It should’ve been an easy guess considering how many times he’s had to help him. Zayn nods, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye at the way he pulled his hair into a bun in front of the mirror. He should correct him, tell him the difference between a nurse practitioner and a physician, but he doesn’t bother, not wanting to waste his breath on someone who probably doesn’t even care.

“Is that what you always wanted to do? Because I don’t take you for the medical type at all. Your tattoos throw me off.”

Zayn chuckles, looking down at his budding sleeve. He tries to guess what gave it away. The flower perhaps? Or maybe the stickman on the skateboard. “Nah. I wanted to study Art History, but it doesn’t necessarily pay the bills.”

Harry hums thoughtfully, playing with his lower lip. “Sounds like my dad,” he admits.

That got to Zayn because it was his own dad that said it, crushing his childlike optimism. He got into Zayn’s head during his second year and the fact that he was living at home didn’t help. His dad brought it up casually, like he was talking about the weather. To say it bothered him was an understatement. It felt a lot like being kicked in the stomach, or having the rug pulled from underneath his feet. He spent his whole childhood talking about art being in his future plans, only to have his father piss all over it when he was near the finish line.

So he went to medical school for four grueling years. Paid most of it out of pocket as well, which he regretted to this day. When he gets to the office, he has to cover most of his tattoos with special waterproof makeup that matches his skin tone.

“I hate how people always try to push their beliefs on you. You should do something because you want to do it, ya know what I mean? You should do it because it makes you happy. Not for the money. If you’re good at what you do, you’ll find money in it.”

Zayn nods because he understands. It’s what he’s been telling himself for the past few years. Money isn't everything. The hardest challenge is to be yourself in a world where everyone is trying to make you somebody else.

“Do you even like your job?” Harry asks him.

Zayn shrugs, chuckling a bit because no one’s ever really asked him. His dad rambled off his expectations that day. How he wanted a lawyer in the house, an engineer, a _doctor_. Zayn settled for the latter when he went to an engineering class and found out just how little would be provided compared to what he needed to buy.

He didn’t like it at first, being in the hospital. The smell of the office and the confined schedule drove him up the walls sometimes, but it was rewarding, helping others. That was the only thing that truly kept him there.

The deep, guttural tone of Harry’s voice rattled throughout the empty restroom. “This is something you’ll most likely do for the rest of your life. And life is too short to be doing shit you don’t want to do.” His voice lowers and Zayn watches him fidget, watching Harry as he shift his weight from one foot to the next and balls up his fists. “I just think you should do what you love, fuck what anyone else thinks.”

Zayn shakes his head and chuckles again, because that’s what he’s been telling himself too. Harry lifts his head and tries to perfect his little bun. Zayn finds it hard to take him seriously, but he does. There was something deeper to him besides the boring lectures and the charming grins. He's slightly mesmerized by the way Harry speaks, distracted by the push of Harry's lips and the way his tongue moves behind them. He hangs on to every word he says, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever hear. Mainly because he’s never met anyone else who thinks the same way he does and for other reasons he's not entirely too sure of.

 

When they rejoin the party, Zayn’s in a different mood. Harry’s a lot smarter than he mistook him for and he’s actually beginning to have fun with him, much to his confusion. He watches Harry dance across the deck, weaving in and out of the crowd of people whose age range from months old to geriatric.

Harry moves close to him with arms out and no rhythm while Zayn tries to not bring more attention to them by doing his standard two-step. Harry doesn't know the meaning of 'personal space.' Zayn's breath catches in his throat and his heart starts to race when he becomes aware of how close they are, how easily he could reach out and touch Harry. Just yesterday, he was trying to get as far as possible from the younger lad, but now he finds himself gravitating towards him.

He smells good; like the fruity shampoo Eleanor used when she used to visit. Harry’s energy is one to admire. His mum always use to tell him to surround himself with people who built him up rather than tore him down. Despite being so annoying, he could see Harry being one of those people. It was refreshing.

When the night rolls over and the employees make their sweep of ushering everyone out, Zayn makes a dip for it. Quickly strutting away from wandering eyes. He needs a cigarette. It’s kind of hypocritical; that he smokes nearly a pack of cigarettes a day when he’s at home but teaches others about the dangers of smoking when he’s at work. There's a buzz he gets from smoking. Some people shut their eyes and it sort of feels like they're floating. Other times it can make you feel a little dizzy, like when you're tipsy from alcohol. He’s seen it all. The damaged lungs, the false teeth, the aftermath of what smoking does. He’ll go to the ends of the Earth to preach about the hazards, but can’t find himself taking any of his advice. Like wine or coffee, the flavor and smell of cigarettes is an acquired taste.

He ends up near the bow, completely out of sight and by himself. He blows out the first drag of smoke into the night sky and his shoulders loosen.

He takes another and relishes in it, trying to make this one count. Last time he had a cigarette, he'd been inconveniently interrupted.

“There you are!” Harry’s shrill voice makes him tense all over again.

Zayn spins on his heels to find him swaddled in a jacket he wasn’t wearing before. Zayn rolls his eyes because there’s no stopping this kid. He’s persistent, like the trains his mum used to read to him about when he was a kid.

“Nice out.”

Zayn hums in agreement and takes a seat on the lounge chair behind them, enjoying what's left of his night.

Harry stands near the front and spreads his arms out to the wind and Zayn bets himself that he's most likely got his eyes closed. “Come reenact the _Titanic_ scene with me, Zayn. You know the one.”

He knows the one.

"I haven't seen it." And as soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets it, because Harry turns and has a look that means business. Zayn wastes no time tuning him out. It becomes easier the more he has to do it. He knows what to think about in order to captivate his mind's full attention. He thinks about work, unfortunately. Or the last silly thing his mum texted him before he left. ' _Which word in the dictionary is spelled incorrectly? '_   He didn't understand until she replied, ' _Incorrectly.'_ _  
_

He knows he's been out of it for a while when Harry is staring, tapping his foot and his arms crossed. Zayn tilts his head and lifts his eyebrows, his lips curve into a comical smirk. “I’m good, thanks.” It suffices and Harry turns back and his arms are free again.

Zayn puts the cigarette back between his lips. He tries to make it last because he only brought one box, not wanting to take the chance of two of them getting thrown away if he were caught with them.

"Very windy tonight." Harry mumbles, still with his arms out and head lulled back. It wasn't that windy but the weather was a bit nippy in context to the late hour.

Before it even registers that this is Harry he is talking to, Harry slowly tips over the railing. Zayn's heart stops momentarily and he hops off the chair so quickly his cigarette falls and he feels the sharp sting on his arm for a short moment until it's gone again. He grabs Harry back by the collar, his other arm around his chest because he’s way too heavy for just one hand. Zayn swears his legs have turned into noodles and the back of his throat is so dry it makes him choke.

“Why am I always saving your ass?” Zayn asks when he finally drops Harry onto the floor. “You're trying to save me, but you can't even save yourself! You’re mental. D’you know that?"

Harry looks at his with puppy dog eyes and it’s not going to work this time. Zayn can’t always be there; Harry is not his responsibility and he needs to stop acting like he is.

He storms off, not quite sure how a person like Harry is still alive. Not understanding how he gets through the day if he’s that careless.

  
:::

 

On the third night, Zayn dreams of long hair and bad dance moves.

They’re in his cabin. He watches Harry attempt what could be the sorriest excuse of a strip tease he’s ever seen. It then dawns on him that this is exactly what that is: a strip tease.

When the shirt comes off after a long fight with the sleeves, Zayn laughs because it’s kind of real. A show from Harry would most likely be like this; amateur with lots of laughing. He sees the tattoos that he was no stranger to when they were out the other day. But then he sees what he thinks is a Pink Floyd pyramid on Harry’s arm, one he didn’t see when they were by the pool. It makes his heart stop and he doesn’t quite know why, but he brings his hand up to trace the matching tattoo he has on the inside of his own arm.

His heart feels like it’ll give way when Harry stands in front of him in nothing but his boxer-briefs. He straddles Zayn’s lap and he’s fully aware of the pressure that’s straining against the front of his jeans. It’s a new feeling; almost alien-like, having someone of that girth and weight sitting on him, a foreign experience that he’s never felt with anyone else.

Harry stares for what feels like hours and Zayn doesn’t know when his hands found themselves on Harry’s hips, but he keeps them there. Harry’s fingers are working too, unbuttoning Zayn’s shirt. It made Zayn gasp before sucking his lip between his teeth. That’s when Harry’s lips are on his and Zayn doesn’t know how to react. It wasn't passionate, rushed or frantic but it still made his body buzz with what felt like pure excitement.

Zayn tosses his own shirt off, dropping it on the ground and watching hungrily as Harry crawls on his hands and knees on top of him. He chokes when he feels fingers run through his hair before it's pulled. Harry’s mouth is warm, leaving wet lovebites along Zayn’s neck, breath heavy and sharp. Harry tightens his hold and mutters something, dipping his fingers underneath Zayn’s waistband.

When his eyes shoot open and he sits up in his bed in the middle of the dark room, Zayn's practically shaking, chest heaving. He's got a pillow between his legs and he's tenting the sheets, a wet stain uncomfortably sticking him to his boxers. He’s beyond the point of being confused and doesn’t know what to feel. The only men he fancied growing up were the ones he saw on television. Even then, they were just handsome; he didn't have a crush on them.

Zayn doesn’t understand when he kisses Harry in his dreams; lets him lick his mouth or laugh against his ear, breath hot like a flame. He can’t get the sight out of his head and tries to etch it into his memory before it’s gone like every other dream he’s had. He doesn't understand why he's so ready and willing and aching to be burnt.

He’d always been curious. Once, an old girlfriend had put a finger up his arse while she was blowing him. It was different to say the least, but he liked it, wanted her to do it a lot more. Then they eventually went their separate ways. He had tried to hint it towards Eleanor, seeing if she would be open to it, but he had enough trouble even getting her to bed.

He tries to rationalize what this all means, tries to make up some excuse as to why he is all of a sudden feeling this way. He was already vulnerable coming into this, Eleanor standing him up, the endless amount of beautiful girls on vacation who wouldn’t give him the time of day because they were with someone else. It could be because he has cabin fever, having not had sex in almost two months and no time for a proper wank because he’s always busy with work. _Yeah. That’s it. Cabin fever._

He can’t think about that now though and pushes whatever he thinks the dream meant down and tries to lose it in the back of his mind.

  
:::

 

Zayn doesn’t complain on the fourth day; mainly because there’s nothing to complain about.

“Are you still mad at me?” Harry pouts when he finds Zayn near the bar the next evening, having gone the whole day without pestering him. Again, Zayn marvels about the fact that there are hundreds of people on the ship, but Harry always manages to find him. However, he did miss the company. It was definitely weird. He didn’t have anyone else to talk to and at least he was on a first-name basis with Harry.

“No,” he sighs, playing some mindless game on his phone. It bothers him that he's not. He has every right to be. But it's not Harry's fault that he can't so much as stand without getting hurt.

“Good. Because I apologized like 10 times.” Harry then spirals off into a conversation completely of his choosing. “Did you get the notes I sent you?”

Zayn got them. All twenty-seven of them. Brightly colored and tacked to his door like the inside of a teenage girl’s bedroom. Harry must’ve spent the day making them in crafts.

He doesn’t mention anything about the dream. What could he possibly say? _'I had a wet dream about you. What are we going to do about it?'_

Zayn grows accustomed to having Harry around and finds it inevitable to even try to avoid him. He listens when he talks about growing up in Cheshire and when Harry describes each of his friends and the pets that he had when he was growing up. Harry tells him about some bakery shop that he used to work in and describes the smell of burning jam on the bottom of an oven. The way he talks about it should be repulsive, but it all sounds so lovely to Zayn. Like the kind of poetry that doesn’t make sense to some, but resonates with others.

Harry isn’t necessarily bad looking. So if Zayn should ever have a crush on another man, he’s glad he’s at least handsome. Zayn tries to understand, tries to figure out where all these newfound feelings came from, but there is a throbbing in his chest. An itch he can’t scratch.

 

Harry doesn't leave his side at all as they continue to immerse themselves in free drinks. A million and one activities to do and that's where they always find themselves.

It’s near midnight when they wander into the dining hall because their stomachs start to talk to them and the drinks they’ve had are making them talk back. The employees are clearing the tables off and give them exasperated looks when they walk in, but don’t tell them they have to leave.

“How’s about I buy you dinner?” he hears Harry say and it makes Zayn chuckle as soon as he does.

“It’s a buffet. Everything’s free.”

Harry shrugs giddily and Zayn doesn’t object. Harry makes him laugh and tomorrow is their last day so he might as well make the most of what he’s got right now.

 

“Have a girlfriend, Zayn? Married?” Harry asks when they’re sat down in the back corner with plates of leftover food in front of them.

He’s not sure, but he thinks he sees Harry’s shoulders tense at his own question. Zayn wilts a bit, not quite sure how to answer. He does have a girlfriend. Does his girlfriend have a boyfriend is a different story. He’s not one to speak ill of any girl, but Eleanor doesn’t even try anymore. She rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue whenever he tried to carry a conversation with her. He can’t even talk about his family without having her mumble about herself and interrupt about what she did that day instead. She doesn’t listen; doesn’t contribute. It’s like speaking out loud to an empty room. It’s possible that they’ve run their course with their sorry excuse for a relationship. He doesn’t know it, still made the effort to show that he still cared, but she clearly did and was dancing around the opportunity of when she was going to bring it up.

He opens his mouth to respond, but then shuts it again. “It’s complicated.”  

Harry takes it and doesn’t push it, much to Zayn’s gratitude as he desperately tries to wheel the conversation into another direction. They're doing better now that they've got food in them. Harry's had a lot to drink, but can surprisingly hold his own. 

He points at the patch of exposed skin poking out of Harry’s sleeve. “Why do you write on your arm like that? You know that’s dangerous?”

Harry cuffs up his shirt and talks through a full mouth. “Sustainability." He answers plainly before swallowing. "I’m not using paper. Not contributing to deforestation. By doing this, I save three hundred trees annually.”

Zayn takes this moment to drink him in. He’s got his hair down and despite the terrible tourist style shirt and the plastic lei around his neck, he could even pass for a model. That’s when Zayn knows he hasn’t got Harry figured out at all.

Harry explains the trouble with releasing too much carbon into the atmosphere and Zayn cocks his head because Harry’s an enigma. He can talk for hours without stopping and spends most of his time advocating for the environment. Looks like a rock star, but does nothing of the sort. That’s what he should be doing — dancing on stages, not spreading the depressing word on what will become of Polar bears in the next century or so.

Harry mumbles about what will happen if the Earth reaches a surface temperature of five degrees Celsius. Zayn doesn’t know when he missed out on the explanation of the fourth, but he imagines it was some time yesterday when he was trying to get away from him.

Zayn listens, because Harry’s got a lovely voice, like melting butter, he reckons. Zayn can’t explain it, or Harry at all for that matter.

He’s interrupted by Harry coughing dramatically, like a cat with a hairball in his throat. There aren’t a lot of people around, but the few people that are there have their eyes glued on them.

“Alright?” Zayn asks.

Harry stands from his chair, a little red in the face and he points to his throat, he balls his hand into a fist and hits himself in the stomach.

Zayn slowly gets up and rolls his eyes in mock-annoyance because _of course_ this would happen. There it was, another Harry catastrophe; the icing on the cake. Zayn was silly to think they would get through the day without a mishap.

He’s only had to give the Heimlich to one person in his lifetime and once to a dog. “Okay. Okay. Come here.” Zayn settles behind Harry and circles his arms around him with a fist near his ribs. He counts to three and pulls. He explains what he’s doing as people continue to look on. “Abdominal thrusts, behind back blows, are the most effective way to clear the airways.” It occurs to him that he’s giving Harry a little lesson of his own; on something he knows too much about.

He constricts his arms again and something flies out of Harry’s mouth followed by a breathy gasp. Harry falls forward, palms on the table and head down. Zayn rubs his back before giving it a strong pat that makes Harry jump upright. “Alright?”

Harry nods before sitting back down. Zayn can hear the faint sound of clapping dying in the background, but all he can focus on is Harry, his labored breathing and his pink, wet face.

“You saved my life. Again.” Harry says between breaths, hand around his throat while he reaches for his glass of water.

Zayn snorts and continues to eat what’s left of his salmon. “Don’t know if you want to go around telling people you almost choked on a bit of mash.” Zayn points down at it on the floor. “We’ve really got to stop this ‘almost dying’ thing. It’s getting kind of old. Is this how you are at home? Tripping and falling over air?”

That’s when the flip switches and it all begins to come together. There's no way someone could possibly have as many incidents in one day as Harry does - no matter how much of a klutz they are. Plus, Harry’s accidents only seem to happen when he’s around. Zayn doesn’t hear about some Jagger kid skipping about and causing havoc at any other time when he’s in the communal restroom. No one is ever gossiping about the boy who almost pranced his way off the ship during Bingo. “Please explain to me how someone chokes on mash. Almost falls off a boat that goes no more than twelve miles per hour. Nearly puts an arrow through his own boot, and still acts as if it’s not a big deal?” It's just a hunch, but he acts on it. He'll see how far he can get before coming to terms that Harry is innocent in all of this.

He watches Harry squirm, like a toddler who can't keep still. Zayn waits for an answer and he can see the air deflate out of Harry like a balloon. Every time Zayn gets a millisecond of eye contact with him, Harry’s eyes go in a different direction.

After a long pause, Zayn gets up as a final resort, seeing that this is getting him nowhere. The waiters are also dancing around their table with an aim to clean it and he doesn’t want to be in their way.

"Okay.” Harry finally says before Zayn is properly out of his chair. He huffs, eyes staring up and meeting his own. “I wanted to hang out with you. That's all.” Then Harry’s eyes shoot down to his lap and he’s playing with a hole in the tablecloth.

Zayn's glad he wasn't in the wrong, not sure how he'll be able to come back having had an outburst out of nowhere; he organized a whole interrogation skit in his head in less than two minutes from the excessive crime shows he likes to watch.

There was a sort of vulnerability to Harry’s words, and it nearly brought Zayn to a halt. His voice was small compared to the loud boom it normally was. “You were in the crowd that day I first saw you. You looked about as sad as I felt. Thought we could be miserable together.” There was something inquisitive about the way Harry’s eyes dragged over, like he was trying to answer some long-winded question within the planes of his face, and it left Zayn feeling warm all over.

“So you planned the whole thing? Were you even hurt that day when I found you on the floor?”

Harry laughed so loud it startled him. “That I didn’t plan. The scissors neither. I’ve still got the scar to prove it.”

Zayn doesn’t speak, he’s not even sure he knows how to anymore. He lets it all sink in. The unrelenting _thump thump thump_ against his chest is sure to give him away to anyone within a mile radius.

“Mad at me?” Harry asks from under his eyelashes, lips slightly pouted.

He tries to keep his face neutral at the question that was more of an admission than anything else, but he could feel the hot buzzing in his cheeks. After pondering it for so long, Zayn shakes his head. “I get it.” He shrugs and exhales with a slight smile. He doesn't, really, but he finds that he’s not even mad; it seems he can't be when it comes to Harry. It would be a lot easier if he didn’t like him so much. He’s only a tad overwhelmed and a bit irritated that he underestimated him and fell so easily into his trap. He doesn't know whether or not Harry is a genius or just plain crazy. He gets another hint of the kind of person Harry really is, someone who will willingly put themselves in 'danger' in order to gain the attention of another; it sounded like the plot line in a stupid chick-flick his younger sisters used to watch when he couldn’t fight them for the controller.

"You idiot." Zayn says it jokingly but Harry's words are ringing in his ears. _‘Cause I wanted to keep hanging out with you.’_  They fly through his mind and he begins to wonder if maybe Harry was beginning to like him just as much as he was.

 

  
Zayn sees shades of pinks and oranges.

Harry's very pretty, with flowers in his hair. That’s when he knows it’s a dream, because Harry looks like one. But this one isn’t like the last. They’re not in the dark or alone in his bed.

It reminds him of fucking _Twilight_. Harry’s tucked underneath his arm, head on Zayn’s chest and curls out instead of nested in a bun, which Zayn figures is the way he likes his hair the most. He makes the quietest snores in his sleep, and Zayn’s endeared by it, a little too much. It's skin on skin contact from the waist up. His fingertips graze over Harry’s back and run over the curves of his shoulder blades. He’s not quite sure where they are. It feels like earth beneath them, grass or leaves or something of the sort.

They’re just lying there; his arms wrapped around Harry tight and Harry molding easily onto him. They fit together so well despite being so unalike.

When his eyes flutter open this time, he’s got too much on his mind.

He can't figure out why Harry is so different, gets his heart racing more than any person ever has. Harry who is ten times less attractive than SRK and Harry who doesn't even come moderately close to the possibly unhealthy obsession Zayn had on the Black Power Ranger when he was nine.

Like he told himself the night before, he doesn’t see men that way. He has a girlfriend. But Harry has given him more attention in the past three days then Eleanor has in the past month. Harry can chat his arse off but he listens all the same. The few times Zayn did open up and decided to share a little, Harry’s eyes shined with concern when he mentioned his nephew. He follows up with questions that tells Zayn he’s been paying attention. Eleanor couldn’t even be bothered to remember his mum’s birthday. Harry knows all of his sisters signs and can recite some bullshit about their horoscope.

Two dreams in one week, a rare situation in itself, and about the same person no less. It’s a lot to take in, especially when he compares the two. Does he want to fuck Harry or take him on a date? _What does any of this mean? Why Harry of all people?_

It takes him awhile to fall back asleep. The fact that he wants to scares him a bit. He lets his imagination run wild in hopes that it will spark another dream. He thinks about the _Titanic_ and how much of a train wreck that was. It set sail and had sunk four days later; Jack and Rose were already in love by then, fucking about in the back of carriages and making plans for the future.

He’s not in love, but he does like Harry, more than he’d care to admit. He wants to be wrapped in Harry’s arms, wants to have his mouth on his. He shouldn’t, but he does. Harry exuded something Zayn couldn’t put his finger on. When he walked into the room, his eyes were as bright as the boots he wore. His smile could be the answer to ninety percent of the problems this world faces.

But Zayn can’t like him. Not in that way. That’s what he’ll keep telling himself at least, until he starts believing it.

 

:::

 

When he openly goes out looking for Harry on the fifth day, he finds him by the bar, drinking what looks like gin and tonic, a mix his dad would’ve settled for. A big step from his usual fruit flavored vodka shots or his kale smoothies. For whatever reason, Harry doesn’t really cater to him when he walks up to him, doesn’t perk up or talk at all really. He would’ve killed for this days ago, but now it stings a little. It makes Zayn feel unwanted, makes things unreasonably awkward.

“Alright?” Zayn asks after a while. Questioning whether or not it was something he did wrong.

He’s sure he sees a faint smile play at Harry’s lips and his heart stumbles a little when he hears, “Trip should’ve been a lot longer, is all.”

It hurts to look at Harry, almost like staring at the sun. When he’s being normal and not vying for attention, he has the sort of aura that doesn't attract the many eyes of the people around him, yet commands people to stare at him until they're blind.

"Buy you a drink?" Harry offers.

Zayn doesn't even have a chance to say something about them being free before Harry sticks two fingers in the air. The bartender tending to him just as fast. Harry shoves a glass in front of Zayn and raises his own. "Shot of Whiskey, because it's never a bad time for it. And, it matches your eyes quite nicely."

Harry doesn't know it, but the ship could've sunk right then and there and Zayn wouldn't have been able to move. He feels the burning in his chest, the desert in his mouth and throat. All so very new; feelings no one else has ever given to him. He looks around to see if anyone can tell, can see what he feels, can potentially read minds. He knows he's blushing, his cheeks ache from it. His fingertips tingle and he downs the shot before he can drop it. It scared him, how much he wanted something beyond this.

Then he hears Harry talk about some fit bird he sees near the bar and Zayn's nerves prick. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and goosebumps cloud his arm. He mentally kicks himself. It’s not cold out and this sudden infatuation is fucking with him.

He has to at least seem interested, though he doesn’t want to see what Harry’s type is. Blonde, model types probably with pale skin and Disney Princess features. 

Zayn reluctantly turns and only sees someone that can be a grandmother. Her hair is white as snow and she’s got one of those necklaces for emergencies; the ones he sees in commercials from time to time; he's always recommending them to his older patients that live alone. He spins back to see Harry wiggling his eyebrows and grinning so hard Zayn can see his dimples. He’d noticed them before, but not like this. This time, he’s really appreciating the sight of them.

He pushes Harry off the stool he’s on because he’s a cocky little shit and someone has to teach him a lesson.

  
  
  
The ship's horn goes off and Zayn looks out towards the bow. They’re nearing land pretty quickly. He could see the cityscape of Southampton properly now, starting to take shape along the horizon, and all of a sudden Zayn is filled with an almost inexplicable sort of sadness.

“It was nice meeting you, Zayn. Thanks for everything.” He can barely hear over the crowd, but he gets the gist of what Harry is saying. Harry stretches his hand out and it’s like the first day they met all over again. Except this meeting is more cordial and Harry isn’t half dead and disoriented.

Zayn takes it and musters up his best smile.

“Maybe I’ll look you up next time I’m in the city.”

It’s a nice thought. Of Harry going out of his way and taking the two hour long trip from Birmingham to London just to get coffee or something.

When Harry walks in the opposite direction, it definitely makes Zayn’s heart sink into his stomach a bit. It’s all bittersweet and he doesn’t want to say goodbye. He hoped Harry would follow up with an address or something; a date in mind even, but nothing.

Zayn doesn't have a moment to look away before Harry turns around and shuffles back towards him. Without being given a moment to ask, his arm is being yanked away from his chest. Harry has that pen in his hand and for a second, Zayn thinks Harry is going to draw something on him. But then, Harry is done just as fast and pulls away. His dimples deep in his cheeks and his eyes so impossibly warm, they sparkle.

Harry’s off again like he can’t get away fast enough and Zayn scans over the damage he’s done. It’s a phone number. It’s poorly written, like the chicken scratches he used to make when he was in primary school, but he puts it together for the most part.

He wants to yell something about being in an era where phones are a thing and that this was unnecessary, but he lets it go and bites his lower lip until his teeth leave an imprint, trying to hide his grin from the people around him.

 

 

He texts the number well into the night when he's in his own bed and wrapped in the familiar comfort of his own sheets. He doesn’t even bother to text Eleanor, even forgot about her in the haste of everything.

He gets an ugly feeling at the bottom of his chest when he wonders if he got it properly. The numbers smudged before Zayn could even transfer them to his phone. It also didn’t help that Harry wrote them over his tattoos, the ink blending together.

He doesn’t text his name. Or even a ‘Hi.’ If it’s the wrong person, he doesn’t want some random stranger clogging his message feed with countless text after text about who he was and what he wanted. It’s happened before and he had to change his number, twice. No matter how many times he tried to explain he had the wrong number, they kept coming back to ask him for his name or worse, a picture.

He only texts one question. If it’s a stranger, they’ll be put off by it and won't contact him again. If it’s Harry, they’ll have a legitimate answer.

_‘What happens if the world reaches 6 degrees?’_

He waits patiently, staring at the phone as if that will make it buzz any faster.

It worries him, how much he’s invested into this. He feels like a teenager with a crush all over again, definitely something he didn’t think he’d be taking away from his "relaxing" trip.

He gives up hope after only five minutes, but then the phone vibrates loud enough to make him jump back then scramble forward again. It makes him smile when the words _Mass Extinction_ are lit up on the screen.

His heart then falls to his feet when the same number calls him seconds later and he answers to hear Harry’s voice.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Any chance I get to talk about the Climate Change crisis, I'm taking it. Remember, every time you flip a switch, it counts!


End file.
